


All Our Gardens In Bloom

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Weirdness, But Sexy And Fun Rather Than Tragic, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Flowers, I Don't Even Know, Kink Meme, Like Hanahaki Disease, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which making love to another supernatural being can have unexpected consequences.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 108
Kudos: 495





	All Our Gardens In Bloom

Crowley can tell. He can always tell.

It's in the way the angel walks, the way he sits more carefully, wriggles a little more frequently to get comfortable. It's in the way he shifts his hips when he leans into his desk, to settle a pen or an envelope back in its place. Crowley can see every tiny adjustment, every shift of weight, every soft quirk of his mouth - and he _knows_.

He leaves his glasses on the table, leaves his jacket flung over the arm of the sofa, but he doesn't sprawl himself there. Instead, he curls his taller body into the angel's solid back, lays his hands on Aziraphale's hips.

"Show me," Crowley says quietly.

Aziraphale doesn't ask what he means. Though he does give a soft huff that's probably supposed to be a protest, but instead sounds somewhere between amusement and fondness. He sets down the book he'd been carrying, drops a hand and threads his fingers with Crowley's, tugging him in the direction of the stairs. Crowley follows, the same way he always does, the same way he always will. If only to make sure the angel doesn't get into trouble without him.

Getting into trouble with him - well, that's another matter.

There's a new stack of books in the bedroom, the feel of it warmer, more lived in, as if Aziraphale is developing a fondness for the room, even when Crowley isn't with him.

Crowley sits on the bed and watches Aziraphale carefully and methodically untuck his shirt, before opening his trousers, slipping both them and his underwear down his legs. Then he steps out of them and lays them neatly on the chair by the wardrobe. There's a slight blush to his face, for all that Crowley has seen every part of him already by now, something about being the focus of his attention still leaves the angel flustered. 

Aziraphale moves onto the bed, pulling up his legs and gently easing them apart, his strong, generous thighs spreading.

Only then does Crowley crawl up the bed, fill the space the angel had left empty for him, a soft noise already breaking from his throat, as his hands encourage the angel's legs to open wider. There's the faintest rustling sound, the softest, wet parting of skin.

"Oh, angel." It's barely more than a groaning exhale of air.

Crowley slides his long hands up Aziraphale's thighs, moving inwards to the centre of him. He gently eases the angel's labia open with his thumbs, to expose the naked spread of his vulva, pink and faintly wet. But it also reveals the fullness of his sex, stretched open by a slow-blooming fold of rich, white petals. A perfect gardenia nestled inside. Grown from the spill of their combined essences.

It's impossibly beautiful.

He can't resist trailing his fingers over the petals, half of which are still curled damp and tight at the centre, not yet fully bloomed. It's warm and silky to the touch, and Crowley knows it's fed by the finest, trailing threads, attached inside via the thinnest blood vessels. He knows that he could pluck it right now if he wanted to, and the angel would barely feel a sting. Instead he touches it carefully, reverently, he holds Aziraphale's warm, inner folds open so he can admire it. It smells like a spring afternoon, somehow mingled with the much richer, muskier scent of the angel's arousal.

Crowley sinks a little, lays a kiss on the gentle, curving warmth of Aziraphale's pelvis, where the pale hair is soft under his mouth.

"I don't know why you always make such a fuss." Aziraphale sounds somewhere between fond and exasperated.

"It's lovely, angel," Crowley protests. "It's always lovely." This one is almost full, a day away at most, and he knows where this one came from. They'd dined out on Italian, then come back to the shop, made their way through two bottles of good wine, and reminisced until gone midnight. Then Aziraphale had taken him upstairs - where Crowley had spent an age undressing him, finding every newly revealed piece of him worthy of his attention. Every softly curved line of skin kissed, every solid stretch of muscle gently bitten. Until there had been no clothes left, just his mouth on Aziraphale's. The long curve of his body over the angel's, strong thighs lifted to catch his waist, moans pushed into his own mouth while he pushed into the angel. He'd made love to Aziraphale until dawn. 

There's a quiet, fussing noise, a shift of heel up the bed that opens him just a touch more, leaving Crowley's thumb skirting the edge of the bloom. Of the beautiful thing they'd made together.

"It's terribly distracting, as you know very well, I can feel it when I sit down, and my trousers never fit quite right while it's flowering." 

"Do you want me to pluck it?" Crowley asks. Because Aziraphale has always found the flowers more inconvenient than him. Crowley suspects he sees them as something to be quietly and reluctantly accepted, an unfortunate, occasional side effect of the physical side of their relationship. Rather than something to be cherished for everything it meant, rather than something to be explored beneath gentle fingers, the petals stroked, the full bloom of it carefully encouraged. He feels nothing like Crowley's strange need to spread himself open and _see_ them.

"No," Aziraphale says quietly. "I suspect that would simply lead to the problem repeating itself." There's a quiet, questioning tone to the statement, that seems to dare Crowley to prove him wrong. To protest that the soft, empty heat of Aziraphale's sex wouldn't tempt him into crawling higher up the bed, into leaving it full and wet and well-pleased.

Crowley hums and strokes the warmth at the base of the flower, thumb just dipping in beneath it, where the angel has been spread almost indecently by its width. He's deeply relieved that Aziraphale is happy to leave it there, because the thought of slipping his fingers in and grasping that lush bloom, tearing it from Aziraphale's body - no, it's perfect where it is. Once it opens fully it will drop out naturally. It will slip from him in full, briefly leaving the gently curved emptiness of its bed behind, and maybe if Crowley tempts well enough, Aziraphale will at least let him slip his tongue in and feel the shape of it. Where their combined essence mingled, and grew, and flowered there.

Aziraphale's soft exhale is fond, patient, letting Crowley gently feel out the shape of him.

"I could wear a condom?" Crowley suggests, and he tries his very best not to fill that question with any of his own feelings. Humans have their own ingenious solutions to problems they could never imagine. Aziraphale's body is his own, and if the flowers that sometimes form when they press and push and slip into each other - if they're displeasing, or unwanted, then Crowley will do his best to ensure that there are none. He'll say nothing. He won't let a mote of disappointment into his expression. Though he knows it will wound him somewhere deep, knows he'll miss the sight of them, the feel of them beneath his fingers, the way Aziraphale always, always gives them to him.

Aziraphale makes a soft sound of protest at his suggestion, as if that wasn't what he'd meant at all. He reaches a hand down to gently smooth away the frown that Crowley hadn't realised he was wearing. 

"I know you rather like leaving something in me."

Crowley doesn't even try and deny it. Because Aziraphale's flowers are beautiful every time. These wide, heavy blooms, so full of life and colour, that grow slowly wherever Crowley has been, wherever he's buried himself and left the wet spill of his come. 

"Says the angel who wouldn't shut up about the violets in my arse for days," he mutters.

"It was not _days_ -" Aziraphale protests.

It was three days exactly.

"You wrote a poem," Crowley reminds him. A bloody awful one, though not even Satan himself could drag that admission out of him. Aziraphale had been so ridiculously proud of it. He'd read it out loud, red-faced and smiling, while Crowley tried not to squirm like a dying thing, the thickness of unbearable devotion in his throat. 

"They were beautiful," Aziraphale says firmly, with a finality that says he will hear nothing to the contrary. He's always so protective of Crowley's, and so dismissive of his own.

Crowley makes a quiet, protesting sound, though it's too soft to have any bite. The way Aziraphale gives that so easily, the way he makes part of Crowley beautiful. It leaves his chest feeling carved open, soft insides exposed. He turns his head, kisses the wide, plush length of Aziraphale's thigh. The line of his nose making its way down the crease of his pelvis, until the warm fold of a petal touches his lips.

"Not as beautiful as yours, angel."


End file.
